Summer In The City
by peyote-angels
Summary: He feels the series of chills crawl up his spine, like when the realization of being with her hits him. Ryan/Pam. Season Four.
1. Skylines and Cologne

**Chapter Title: Skyline and Cologne.**

**Chapter Summary: She doesn't have to curl her hair or wear skirts, or tights, or cardigans. She has a feeling that in three months, it's going to be very hard to drive away from New York, even if Jim is still waiting for her back home.**

**Author's Note: New summer fic. Based on Regina Spektor's wonderful song Summer In The City. I hope you enjoy, my loves.**

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The city is bigger then she expected. Even more cars and people then the movies manage to depict, if you can believe it. And she feels almost like a tourist, which she almost is, with her wide eyes looking up at the huge buildings, wonder on her face.

Her dorm is nice and her roommate is quiet and clean, which she very much appreciates. She doesn't have to curl her hair or wear skirts, or tights, or cardigans. She has a feeling that in three months, it's going to be very hard to drive away from New York, even if Jim is still waiting for her back home.

She doesn't go to clubs and bars. Instead, she scopes out all the quaint delis and cafes she can find. She meets her friends from class for coffee every Wednesday, mostly discussing books and art. She's reminded briefly of the "Finer Things Club" but the geekiness of it strikes her, and she brushes bowties and Oscar away.

They call her Scranton Pam, which she silently resents. She isn't _really _from Scranton, she's just spent way too many pointless years there as a receptionist for a failing paper company, working for a whack job boss. And even though she would always verbally abuse Dunder Mifflin and Michael Scott, she never really felt that disgust like she did right then.

She didn't go out to Benelli's that Wednesday.

She feels more free in her shorts and cotton tees then she even has before. She likes the sun shining down on her while she sits on a bench in Central Park with a book, or kicks a soccer ball around in the grass with Tad, a boy she met in the library, before class.

They're just friends, though, she tells herself, but never tells him that, even when his wide grin makes her shiver in the humid heat.

She gets her homework done by eight and reads or watches TV until she goes to bed at ten. She has a simple and organized life within two weeks of moving in. She wouldn't have it any other way.

The first time she sees Ryan, it's a Friday afternoon. She's walking around the Village, a few books pressed to her chest and a backpack slung over her shoulder.

He has his sports coat tucked over his arm and his eyes are hidden behind black Ray Bans. But his strides shorten and his lips are parted and she knows he sees her.

And she walks slowly, blinking her eyes, because even though she knew he was out in New York too, the familiar face leaves her slightly dumbfound.

But as she turns her head to look back at him, he's all ready turned the corner, his expensive cologne barely lingering behind as rivers of people push past her.

xxxxx

The second time she sees him, it's a Sunday morning. She had fallen asleep on Tad's couch the night before after a movie, but you know, that's all that happened. Her hairs messily held up in a clip, her light makeup smudged, and clothes crumpled.

He doesn't look much better. At least she doesn't smell like booze and cigarettes. She'd almost feel disgusted if he didn't look so sad. His usually bright blue eyes are dim, the bags underneath them heavy and dark. God, he smells rank. And he needs to shave.

But she finds herself crouching down next to him, the brick building his back is slumped against jabbing her bare shoulder painfully. She winces, edging forward slightly to be more comfortable.

She says his name. It tastes foreign on her tongue, but warm. "Ryan," she says again. He lifts his head, his eyes red. And she thinks he's still a little drunk.

He lifts a shaking finger and squints, touching the smooth skin of the corner of her eye. "Pam?" he manages, his voice hoarse.

"Hi," she says, fixing a small but sweet smile on her lips.

"Hi." His head falls back and he blinks against the sun that has begun to peer over skyscrapers at them. He pulls his shiny sunglasses from his pocket, clumsily pushing them up the bridge of his nose. "How you likin' New York?" But his voice slurs, New York coming together, sounding like "Nework." Maybe that's just how you start to talk after a while of living here. She hopes it doesn't happen to her.

She nods. "I love it," she says, her voice low, something she's sure he appreciates. She remembers how Roy would react on Monday mornings when she'd talk in a normal voice. And Pam was all ready quiet as it was.

"Mmm." He shifts about, wincing slightly, pulling a lighter and a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. "S'mazing out here," he murmurs, pulling a Marbolo free, sticking it between his lips. She watches as he lights it, inhaling slowly.

It's quiet around them. The air is cool; the humidity hasn't set in yet and she's pleased. It's all ready uncomfortable enough against this brick wall and having to breathe in Ryan's secondhand smoke.

He sighs, holding the cigarette between his long fingers. "Hm?" He makes a noise in his throat, not really forming a question. He holds the cigarette out to her.

She stares at it, her expression blank. "No thanks."

He shrugs, taking another drag.

She's not sure why she's here with him or why she feels a sudden serenity around her. The last place she'd suspect to find peace was with Ryan fuckin' Howard. New York has really changed her.

He finishes his smoke, sticking it under the toe of his shoe, crushing it. She watches the left over tobacco leaves sink into the cracks of the sidewalk.

She watches him. His breathing has sped up and a groan escapes his lips. "I gotta vomit," he mumbles, almost incoherently, before she can ask.

Instead of standing, her merely leans away from her, moving his face to his other side. She grimaces darkly as she hears the splatter.

She isn't sure what to do. He gasps, falling forward once more. Her hand lifts, touching the middle of his back, feeling his dirty shirt under her skin. He moans. Her fingers rub over his shoulder blades.

Panting, he sits up, falling against her shoulder.

"Oh. Ok," she says uncertainly. His breath smells and his stubble is scratchy against her arm, but she hears his breathing return to normal, his fingers not shaking as much anymore.

They sit in silence and she hears him inhale heavily, slowly sobering up in the fresh air. "I'm sorry," he mutters thickly, and she sees his face flush a deep red.

And she shrugs, slowly standing up, her knees aching.

"Can I buy you breakfast?" he asks, pushing his glasses onto his forehead and looking up into her face. She offers her hand out to him.

"No," she says, carefully pulling him to his feet. He steadies himself against her. "But I can buy you breakfast."

She sees the familiar sparkle in his eye before his Ray Bans hide it from view.

xxxxx

She's sitting in the back of a diner with him, watching as he drinks his black coffee, his pale face slowly regaining colour. "How you doing?" she asks, nibbling the corner of her toast. She brushes the crumbs from her lips.

He nods, setting down the mug. "Better." He hasn't spoken too much to her, just the polite and quiet "thanks" and "yes please". He seems too far gone to be the asshole Pam knew he could be. "My head hurts like shit," he murmurs.

She reaches a hand into her purse, fishing around for the bottle of Excedrin she carried around. Her fingers grasp the bottle, and she pushes the lid off, shaking a few pills into her hand. "Here." She pushes them across the table.

He gives her a small, grateful nod, wincing slightly at the movement. She studies him, her eyes taking in the wrinkles that had lightly lined his tired looking face. She has a feeling that it's not because of the late night before.

"What?"

She blinks, realizing she was staring. His eyebrows are raised, his expression curious.

"Nothing, you just look…" She stops, shaking her head. "How's your job?" she asks.

He sighs, resting his chin on his palm. "Oh, you know." He looks up at her from underneath his dark lashes. "Hard," he admits, offering a shrug. "A lot of paperwork and decision making. Hard decision making. Can't ever mess up." He seems restless, his voice low as if he's telling her a secret.

"I can imagine." She nods, her face thoughtful. "I'm sure you're doing well though."

His eyes drop to his lap and she frowns slightly, but doesn't continue.

She decides to walk him back to his apartment.

His sunglasses are back on, the sun gleaming off them. She doesn't see his faded eyes for longer then the half hour they sat together for breakfast.

He's stumbling, almost falling into a passing taxi. "Ryan," she says, taking his wrist and pulling him back onto the sidewalk.

He falls into her. She lets him use her as a crutch.

"So why are you in New York?" he mumbles to her as they turn the corner, trudging closer to his apartment.

"I'm going to the PRATT School of Design," she tells him. She would have though that supporting a drunk/hung over male would leave her gasping for breath, but Ryan wasn't too much taller then herself, and he was so, so, so effing skinny.

"Halpert with you?" Every word sounds like he's forcing it out of his mouth while he pants, struggling to keep up with her.

She slows down, slipping her arm around his thin waist. "No. Just me for the next few months."

He comes to a stop, catching his breath. "Sure you'll manage to stick it out all alone in the big city?" He looks down at her, his lips twisting into a small grin.

She blinks. "I'm sure I'll be fine."

He reaches a hand toward his face, lowering his glasses and allowing them to rest on the tip of his nose. "If you're ever feeling lonely, doll, just give me a ring." The look in his eyes is playful, but she feels flustered. He's so out of it.

He pushes his glasses up his nose, and she turns, beginning to lead him once more down the sidewalk.

They come to a stop in front of his building. She declines his offer to go upstairs with him.

"You're too good for that, I know." He shrugs, almost in a sad sort of way. "Just 'cos I'm hott shit now doesn't mean I always will be, I guess." A dark shadow crosses his face."

"Er, right. I'll see you, Ryan," she tells him, patting his shoulder. She watches him stumble into the building, disappearing in the elevator.

She's aware that she smells like she's been out all night, his cologne imprinted on her skin.


	2. Burning Eyes:Shaking Fingertips

**Chapter Title: Burning Eyes/Shaking Fingertips.**

**Summary: He forgot she was wearing an engagement ring.**

**Authors Note: Chapter two! Thanks for the emails and such; I hope you enjoy this chapter, my dears.**

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He sits in his desk. Well, he figures, it's not really going to be his desk anymore. It'll be the new MBA's desk, if the company doesn't go under after the shit he pulled.

Wallace walks by, shoots him a grin.

Ryan presses his forehead against the cool, oak wood of the desk. He doesn't know.

His fingers shake. Will the police come? He refrains from going into the bathroom and doing lines. If the police come, he plans on being sober because he deserves to feel the humility.

His phone rings and his heart nearly jumps out of his chest. "Ryan Howard," he manages, praying his voice sounds steady.

It's Grace. Her voice is gentle and normal. She doesn't know.

He really just wants to die.

"There's a Miss Pam Beesley out here for you."

His heart skips a beat, something he notices.

"Send her in." He sits up tall, trying to not look like the failure he knows he is.

Failure. The word aches. He should get used to it.

He barely has to look up to know she's at his door.

"So this is where you work now." She looks so sweet and young and innocent in her simple tank top and floral skirt. He can't even believe something like that can manage to fit itself into his fucked up life right now.

"Pam. Hi." He keeps his hands under his desk (the desk) so she doesn't see them shaking.

"You really aren't the temp anymore."

No, goddammit, he isn't. The pang of regret at that knowledge is unfamiliar.

"Guess not."

She cocks her head, pulling away from the bookshelf she was looking at.

"Shut the door," he says before she can talk. She does, her hips swaying slightly underneath her skirt.

Her hair is damp and she smells like something citrusy – oranges maybe? He clings to that. In an hour, maybe two, it's the only thing he'll remember.

"Hey, you here?" She clicks her tongue, smiling as she sits neatly down across from him.

His smile is more of a grimace. His face is pained looking, almost as if a puppy is being drowned in front of him.

God. He should have just stayed in the shower this morning and held his breath. Drowning is probably the most uncomfortable way to die.

Yeah. Well. Whatever.

"Ryan." And her eyes look scared, her face pale. "What happened?"

And his palms are sweating, pressed hard against his pants, his way too expensive pants. Why the hell did he fork over that much for _pants_? Fuck Armani.

"I think I might be going to jail." The words are whispered, not that it makes them any less real. Because it's real, holy hell it's real. The look on Pam's face confirms this.

"_What_?" Her voice is low but sharp and he cringes.

He buries his face between his hands, breathing in deeply. "I've been embezzling money," he says, hiccupping nervously, his foot tapping.

"Oh, _Ryan_!" But the look on her face isn't disappointment or disgust. Just fear. "_Ryan!" _

He groans, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, white spots appearing.

"I'm so scared," he whispers, his voice shuddering. She looks frozen, her mouth stuck in a 'o' shape. For some reason he wants to apologise over and over to her.

He doesn't get a chance.

There's a pound at the frosted glass door. He really wants to throw up. She's saying something. He can't hear her.

"Ryan Howard, you are under arrest."

"It'll be ok, Ryan."

"You have the right to remain silent…"

"Just breathe, Ry."

"…anything you say can and will be used against you…"

"Just…"

"…in the court of law."

"Breathe."

His arms are twisted behind his back, the cold metal cuffs digging into his wrists. He feels a finger prod him in the back, edging him forward.

She's standing by the doorway, her face scared. His eyes burn and he blinks quickly, looking away.

She smells like oranges.

xxxxx

The fingerprinting and processing went by quickly and he can't talk, even when Wallace is standing there tearing him down.

But it's not until the dim lights shut off completely and the doors clank shut and he's alone on the cold hard bed that his burning eyes finally overflow. And he's wearing his clothes from earlier today, his stupid 300$ pants. Tears drip down his face and he doesn't even give a shit that he's a total pussy for crying.

But he's in prison, man, prison.

He thinks of oranges and doesn't hyperventilate.

His head aches and he'd lie down but the pillows hurt, so he stays sitting up.

He has one phone call. He wants to call his mom but she probably all ready knows. Maybe she'll bail him out in the morning. Maybe not.

He thinks of her skirt and her damp hair sitting nicely on her collarbones.

Why the fuck is he thinking of her?

What about his apartment? How's he going to afford it now? How's he supposed to get a new job?

Business school didn't prepare him for this.

And what about jail? He gets out on bail for a few months, trial comes… what, 15 to 20 years?

He thinks of her face. She looked as scared as he felt. He hadn't expected that. He calms down.

He wakes up to the smell of oranges. She's nowhere near him.

His mom got him out on bail. She doesn't talk to him, just drops him off at his apartment. Says she's finding a lawyer.

His studio feels so different, like he's in a movie. He digs out his pajama bottoms, the ones he hasn't worn since college.

Sweat forms on his chest as he lies in bed at two in the afternoon. He ignores the baggy of cocaine in the nightstand drawer next to him.

His phone rings at six, waking him up. His mom found him a lawyer. He has a hearing in three weeks. His stomach churns when she hangs up with no words of comfort, no 'I love you'.

He thinks he's getting an ulcer. Can you die from an ulcer?

He has Christmas lights around his bed. Decorations supposedly. Ryan really does love Christmas.

He wonders how tight he would have to tie to string of lights around his neck before passing out.

Sleep isn't an option this time, so he flips the TV on. He turns to a baseball game, an Indians game. He lives in New York. His dad loved Cleveland.

He doesn't care about the game, never has. But it's noise. He can pretend he's into it, if he lies to himself enough, which he does.

His dad would watch these games all the time. Ryan would sit by his feet, even after he graduated high school.

His Dad died last year. Ryan was high at the funeral.

His Dad's Indians hat sits on his dresser.

He watches the game because it's familiar.

The knock at his door isn't. He thinks it's probably the police.

He should have stayed in the shower this morning.

He thinks of oranges. (Is this the fucking Shining, or something?)

He picks up the golf club his mom bought him last year for his birthday. Jack Nicolson is probably standing outside his door. Maybe he'll take the deed off my hands and kill me, he thinks darkly to himself, because as of a few hours ago, he's a sick suicidal bastard.

That thought freaks him out, though. He rests the putter of the club on his shoulder, slowly peeling the door open.

Her hair isn't damp anymore. And she says his name. He sees the relief break over her face.

His mother couldn't tell him she loved him.

Pam looks like she's going to throw her arms around his neck but she doesn't. "Can I come in?" she asks breathlessly. And he steps back, allowing her entrance.

"Practicing your golf?" she asks, eyeing the golf club on his shoulder. He lowers it.

"No… I was just… " His voice trails off. His eyes sting.

"What happened?" she asks weakly, sitting down on the edge of his bed because there's nowhere else to sit.

He doesn't have people over often.

And he sits down next to her feet, facing the television he's never really watched.

"I have a hearing in three weeks. My mom got me a lawyer." He pauses. "She hates me." His voice is sickly thoughtful, pervertedly light,

"Ryan…" But she doesn't move.

"I think I might kill myself." Christ, he's loosing his mind.

She doesn't say anything; she probably can't decide if he's joking or not.

He's not. Unless this is all just a sick mutherfuckin' joke.

No. Even if this were a joke, he'd still want to kill himself.

"My Dad likes the Indians," she says into the quiet.

"So did mine." Past tense. That shuts everyone up.

But even though he's cold and snarky and rude, (which he always is anyway, this is just bumped up a few levels), she doesn't leave. And he really doesn't want her to.

He leans her head against her knee, the hem of her skirt tickling his ear.

They stay like that until after the ABC News Report, after the 11'o clock news, until after Nightline, and long after Jimmy Kimmel.

xxxxx

He pours the baggy of cocaine into the toilet, watching it flush down. The sound resonates around the small studio.

She left at three in the morning.

His blankets smell like oranges. He wonders if she like, hides them in her pockets, or something. He almost wants to go see her, say he's sorry for being a dick.

He wants to take her out to dinner.

This whole jail thing is making him crazy, because he starts to change his clothes. No point in wearing a suit. He's not going to work any time soon. So he finds his grey jeans and a soft white tee shirt.

After slipping into his Vans, he grabs his ever-present sunglasses, placing them on top of his head.

He wonders if she'll be in class. It's the middle of a Wednesday. So yeah, probably. His craziness blinds him as he walks through the courtyard of PRATT. Where should he try and look for her at?

He sees some guys standing underneath a tree. He smells the sweet smoke coming from the joint, but he keeps walking.

Eventually, he finds the dorms. And after asking around, he finds her dorm. He feels stupid. He knows he look stupid, sweat beading on his forehead, his feet probably looking too big for his body. Thank Christ there's no mirror. Otherwise he'd probably leave.

He's a train wreck.

There are voices on the other side of the door but he thinks of her feet swinging a few inches above the carpet as she sits on his bed, and he knocks.

She looks surprised to see him there, (God, she's not the only one) but she smiles sweetly all the same. "Ryan, hi!"

He awkwardly smiles back. That actually hurt his mouth.

"What are you doing here?" She doesn't wait for his answer. "Come in!"

He feels himself being pulled into the room. Blinking, he steadies himself, taking in his surroundings. This certainly feels like a dorm room. There are posters and a mini fridge and a TV and a set of bunk beds.

Two girls are here, only lazily lying across the top bunk, the other sitting Indian style on the floor.

And then, there's Halpert.

He looks out of place, awkwardly ducking his head as he sits on the bottom bunk. His eyes narrow slightly when they land on Ryan.

"Oh my gosh," she says, looking really happy. "Ok. Ryan, this is my roommate, Kara." She gestures to the girl on the top bunk who barely turns her head to look at him. "And this is Elizabeth." The girl on the floor looks up, giving him a small smile. He grimaces.

"And you know Jim, obviously." Her voice falters.

"Hey man," Jim offers, "what are you doing here? You seemed so busy earlier." He smiles like the cameras somewhere nearby and Ryan really just wants to punch that mutherfucker.

Ryan feels his shoulders tense up. "Yeah, I got your message…" He rubs the back of his neck. Shit, this was a crummy idea.

"So what's up, Ryan?" Pam asks, looking up at him.

He shifts awkwardly. "I was just… I remembered you went here."

He could say 'thanks for last night' or 'can I take you out?' but the idea of Jim knocking him out wasn't a nice one.

Everyone's kind of watching him now. He shoves the toe of his shoe into the carpet.

"Just thought I'd stop by," he says into the silence, looking up at her.

Her gaze softens. She knows why he's here. He hates that he's suddenly so vulnerable.

"But, I'm going to go now." And his voice sounds way too loud. Her face looks way too sad.

He offers a nod, turning on his heel, feeling her eyes on his back.

He stands in the empty hallway.

He forgot she was wearing an engagement ring.


	3. Marching Bands Of Manhattan

**Chapter title: Marching Bands Of Manhattan.**

**Chapter summary: She thinks he might just break her heart.**

**Author's Note: Sorry for the wait. Finally done with school so I'll be able to update this more often. This chapter's short. Hope you all love it, chickadees.**

**PS: Chapter title from Death Cab For Cutie's song of the same title. From the Plans album. Definitely check it.**

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His eyes, they were just burned into her mind. They weren't bright or dim. They were scared. He was so scared. Jim had brushed off her suggestion to see if he was ok. "He's such a dick."

And he was. Pam knew that. Even when she sat there for hours with him, he still was a dick.

But _God_. His eyes.

She picks up her phone. She has his number; she coaxed it out of him the night she was at his apartment.

Her dorm is empty, the ringing phone in her ear the only sound she can hear. Her eyes flicker towards the window; God it's such a nice summer evening.

"Hello?" His voice is scratchy and she wonders if he was sleeping.

"Hi," she says, her voice soft.

"Hi."

She grips her phone tightly, curling up against her pillow. She hears his shallow breathing on the other line. She opens her mouth to talk.

"Can I take you out for dinner?" His words are hushed and it sounds like his mouth is pressed too close to the phone.

She says yes, and after they hang up, she hopes his eyes aren't so grief stricken.

She thinks he might just break her heart.

**xxxxx**

He keeps mumbling apologies under his breath to her.

"Ryan, it's ok. Really. This place is wonderful." She gives him a smile, a real smile, and the worry slowly vanishes from his face.

He wanted to take her somewhere nice, somewhere better then the deli on the corner of 6th street. She couldn't figure out why; this wasn't a date. It totally wasn't. He agrees when she states this out loud. Yeah, it wasn't a date.

Maybe he felt bad for being an asshole last week. She ponders this as she sips her water. It's far fetched. But he did spend the night in a holding cell so, anything's possibly, really.

Her fingers press down against the skirt of her sundress. She isn't sure when the whole fashion obsession hit her. She had met a girl in her design class who wore such adorable clothes Pam couldn't help but compliment her. She stumbled across the cute boutique down the street from PRATT and came out with way too many shopping bags. It was summer. And she was in the city. She could look cute if she wanted to.

"Are you going to let me pay this time?" he asks, a small smile causing his lips to twitch slightly. His voice is so low and… deep almost. Husky. Different.

She smiles. "Yes, you can pay this time. Do you usually get drunk and get girls to buy you breakfast?"

His eyebrows lift. "If I remember correctly, you wouldn't le me buy you breakfast." His tone is playful. She wonders when he last smiled. It hurts to think about.

"Whatever, Howard," she says, sighing.

"Besides, this makes us even," he says promptly, his voice sounding all business like. She wonders if that's how he used to sound in meetings.

He looks so young in his button up shirt and tie. She bets he paid a lot for his shoes. All to impress people.

She gets a mandarin salad and a chicken wrap. He looks slightly amused as she slips the orange between her lips.

"What?" she asks, her voice suspicious. He only shakes his head, a smile teasing his lips.

They eat in silence.

"Why did you come to my dorm?" she asks suddenly. They thought had been bouncing around her head and she couldn't get it out, like the shell of a popcorn kernel stuck between your tooth and gum.

He pushes a piece of leftover lettuce around his plate with his fork, not meeting her eyes. "Because I wanted to ask you to dinner."

She blinks, watching him. "Oh." She hadn't known what to expect, if anything at all.

And then he laughs. It's quiet and sudden, she's sure she didn't hear it. But his shoulders shake slightly and he leans back in his chair. And he's laughing, he's really laughing.

So she giggles, uncertain at first but it grows, causing her ribs to ache. And they're laughing in their seats, the guy behind the deli counter looking strangely at them, but she doesn't care and she's pretty sure he doesn't notice.

She hiccups, pressing her fingers against her flushed cheeks.

He sighs, running a hand over his face. And his eyes are red and kind of wet but he doesn't blink or look ashamed about it like the day he got arrested.

She wonders if he still wants to die.

They walk down the sidewalks of the Village. He buys her a Coke because they both called 'taxi' at the same time. They laughed about it for so long, the cabbie finally drove off and they decided walking would be fine since it's a nice night, and all.

He asks about school.

"Oh, it's good," she says, running her fingers through her hair. "It's hard but it can be fun. I'm learning a lot."

He nods like he's listening and she thinks he really is.

She wants to ask about what happened. She says she won't, in her head, but she does. She feels bold tonight.

Exhaustion shadows his face.

"I'm sorry," she says quickly, "I just…"

But he shakes his head, sighing. "I wanted to be the best. I wanted to prove that I wasn't just the temp. I just wanted… respect. To be heard for once."

He looks at her. "Guess I went about it the wrong way."

She lifts her eyebrows.

He nods.

She nods.

"At least you know now," she says awkwardly.

"I would prefer to be ignored and unnoticed." He shivers, even though it's warm outside. She wonders if he's thinking about jail. She doesn't ask this time.

Instead, she tells him it'll be ok. "You didn't… kill anyone. Just…" She pauses, not knowing what to say. "You'll just…" She breaks off again.

"It's fine," he says and she hears a small smile in his voice.

They stop, standing underneath a streetlight. She folds her arms over her chest.

"You look really pretty tonight." The words just kind of blurt out, fast and quiet. She smiles, reminded of the nervous temp she used to know.

"Thanks," she tells him, her face glowing underneath the yellow light.

He seems to relax. "You look different." His eyes study her. "Maybe it's just the city."

She nods. "Yeah, maybe." It's quiet.

"A good different, though," he says as they continue walking once more.

She laughs softly. "I'd hope so."

They stop again 10 minutes later in the PRATT courtyard.

"I'll stop by this week, ok?" she days, looking up at him. She doesn't have to step back to look at him like she does with Jim. She likes that.

"You don't have to…"

"I want to."

And he smiles at that, a shy smile, something she hasn't seen him do in years.

"See you around, Pam," he says, looking at her for a moment longer before turning on his heel and beginning to walk away.

She watches him and the tug at her heart is undeniable.

"Ryan!"

He stops, turning around, and she jogs up to him.

"Thanks for dinner," she says breathlessly.

He looks at her uncertainly. "Yeah, no problem."

He's barely finished his sentence before she reaches her arms out, wrapping them around his neck.

She can tell that he hasn't hugged anyone in a long time. His body's stiff and his arms are awkwardly hanging at his sides. It probably looks comical. She hopes there aren't any cameras.

But his body relaxes, his hands gently holding the small of her back. His beard is scratchy against her skin, but she pulls him closer, his face buried against the crook of her neck.

She's not sure how long they stayed that way but when they finally pull away, her body is warm from his.


	4. Slow Down

**Chapter title: Slow Down.**

**Chapter summary: He feels far too lonely to complain about it though.**

**Author's note: Sorry for the wait! I'll try and have all this posted by the end of the summer. Thanks for the comments and favourites. I appreciate them all greatly. The chapter title is from the song of the same title by The Academy Is… I would check it out.**

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Three weeks seemed like a decent amount of time. But two weeks comes too quickly and everyday he checks a square off the calendar. Ryan feels like vomiting.

She came over, like she said she would. She would stay late, sitting next to him on floor, sometimes not even talking, just watching a game or the news. He likes her presence, though. Her sweet smelling shampoo, her tan arms, her new, flirty dresses. The city changed her, but unlike him, it's for the better.

He texts her every night. She goes to bed earlier then he does, usually around 10 or 11. It's never profound, it's not like he loves her or anything. He just wants her to know he appreciates her company, even if she's just hanging around him because she feels bad for him, which she figures is the case.

He feels far too lonely to complain about it though.

When she comes over on a Tuesday afternoon, they're sitting on his bed, playing gold fish. There's a thud on the door and an envelope slides across the carpet. They stare at it before he crawls over the bed, looking down. His name is sloppily scribbled on the front. Sighing, he picks it up, then looks at her.

"Read it for me." Her mouth twitches, but she nods gravely, taking the envelope from him.

"Oh…" Her face falls slightly. "You're late on your rent."

He stops pacing the floor, groaning. "Fuck," he mutters, falling backwards on the bed. "I have to find a roommate." He punches the mattress, staring up at the ceiling. "I can't afford this place anymore. I'm going to have to move."

He rubs his knuckles into his eyes. "This is the last thing I need right now."

She curls up like a cat, looking over at him. "I could ask around at my school," she offers gently.

He peers at her. "Mind not mentioning that I'm probably going to jail?" he mumbles.

The smile on her face is sad but her expression becomes thoughtful. "What… what if I move in with you?"

It's quiet and he blinks a few times, lifting his head to look at her better. "Really?" And he feels hopeful for the first time in a few months.

"I mean… You need a roommate and PRATT isn't far from here. I make enough. Plus… it could be fun." She smiles, lifting her eyebrows.

"Pam," he says, reaching over and kissing her forehead. "I think I might love you a little bit right now."

And she giggles, a blush rising to her cheeks.

"Thank you," he says quietly, the usually small and gloomy apartment feeling bright and comfortable.

"You're welcome."

They start making plans shortly after.

She gets permission to leave her dorm before the semester ends. He puts her name on the lease. She packs up the few items she has. He sets up the futon, where he'll be sleeping. It doesn't bother him as much as it probably should have.

And she moves in on Saturday.

He makes sure the apartment is clean.

"So. Think this is going to work?" he asks as she sinks onto the edge of the bed.

She looks nervous, lifting her face towards his. "Mmhm."

"You all right?" he asks, sitting down next to her.

She lets out a breath, her hands palm down on her thighs. "Yeah, this is just… really new to me." Her gaze softens. "I don't regret doing this," she says firmly. "Honestly."

She sounds like she's trying to convince herself.

"Ok," he says nodding. He grins, patting her hand. "Don't worry, all right?"

And she nods, her body relaxing.

The first night in the apartment, she sleeps in his bed and he sleeps on the futon. He forgot that it's the futon from hell. He ends up curled at the foot of the bed by morning.

She doesn't say anything about it, because the next night, he's spooning with her on the futon. They don't talk about it. Sometimes they fall asleep on the floor in front of the TV.

Needless to say, Ryan was getting to know her better then he had known any ex-coworker. Even Kelly.

He's stretched out on the bed, aimlessly flipping through a magazine because really, if he sits still too long, he'll start thinking of the hearing next week. And that just doesn't really appeal to him right now.

He told Pam he was probably going out but when he started to walk out the door, staying in just seemed like a better choice. Really, though, the fear of seeing Wallace or Kendall even Hunter… it makes him sick.

He stays in tonight.

There's a girl living here, definitely. The sheets smell so much cleaner and fresher. His bathroom and kitchen are spotless. There's even food in the fridge.

And usually, the idea of his pad turning into freaking Bed, Bath, and Beyond would scare the shit out of him.

He doesn't mind it too much.

The game is on, as usual.

He falls asleep around nine.

_-She's circling around him, wearing a deep purple dress and her eyes. God, her eyes. She's looking at him, laughing and teasing her hair, looking at him like he's a mirror, like she's getting ready to go out._

_Her fingers graze over his skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps on his arm. And he tries to reach his hands out but they're bound together with handcuffs that feel so, so, so painfully familiar. And he looks down at his chest._

_He's wearing an orange jumpsuit. And he feels nauseous, like he might pass out, but he keeps his eyes on her, like maybe she has a key to free him with._

_But she's floating off, her face pale and she's soon replaced by metal bars and fuck, fuck, fuck she's gone and he can't see her anymore and he feels like Harry fuckin' Potter when his damn scar hurts and Ryan thinks his head is just splitting in two._

_And he's alone. He's alone. He's alone. He'sallalone.-_

The doorknob is turning and he yelps, shaking himself awake, and falling off the side of the bed. "Fuck," he mutters, sitting up shakily.

And the door slams open and Pam's backing up into the wall, Jim on her mouth, and shit, maybe this is a nightmare.

His head throbs; Jesus Christ, he's certainly awake.

He stumbles to his feet, his shin ramming into the nightstand.

"Ryan?" Pam gasps, Jim jumps, and Ryan's bent over, clutching his leg.

"_Ryan_?" Jim's voice holds… disgust. And holy hell, Ryan's not in the mood to deal with this dillhole right now. "What's he doing here?"

"I live here," Ryan growls, straightening up carefully.

"He _lives _here?"

"No, Jim, wait--!"

"You said you moved in with a girl from school!"

"I know, but, I just though you'd be mad-"

"Mad? _Mad_? I'm furious!"

"Jim, come on, it's not what you think!"

"How do you know what I'm thinking? How can you comprehend how pissed I am? You moved in with another guy and lied about it!"

"If you'd let me explain-"

Ryan groans, managing to limp over to the futon. Shit, everything hurts right now. He's tense as fuck. Shit, shit, shit.

"Ryan, Ryan are you ok?" she asks, moving towards him, her face white and eyes red.

"Pam, what the _hell_? I'm talking to you!" Jim says gruffly, his voice exasperated, and a rush of cold fury surges through Ryan's gut.

"Hey, leave her alone," he manages, holding his head and glaring at the way too tall salesman from between his fingers.

Jim's eyes flash, and shit, maybe he shouldn't have said that.

"Excuse me?" Jim asks, his voice low and deadly sounding.

"Leave her alone."

And fuck the sky if his head wasn't hurting before. Jim's fist makes contact with his eye. He feels the uncomfortable futon underneath his head.

Crap, his head. It fucking hurts.

**xxxxxxx**

Her fingers are touching his skin once more, and maybe he's having a coma dream, or something. Maybe getting knocked out wasn't the worst thing ever…

"Are you _smiling_, Ryan Howard?" Her voice is sharp and he winces. "This isn't funny. You've been knocked out for half an hour, I've been worried sick!"

He forces his eyes open, the left lid pulsing in pain. "What're you worrying about me for?" he croaks, grimacing as he props himself up. "Don't you think I can take Halpert?"

She glares at him. "Oh yeah, definitely! After you and the futon got cozy, he ran for his life," she snaps sarcastically. She sighs, touching his jaw gently. And he feels goose bumps, feels his jeans tightening painfully.

He holds back a gasp, crossing his legs.

"I'm so sorry, Ryan," she says and she looks pained. Her eyes overflow. "I just… I wanted to help you out and I knew he'd be furious. He… he doesn't like you, really."

"Never would have guessed," he mumbles and she gives a watery smile.

"Do you feel all right?" she asks, biting her lip.

"Well, I'm pretty sure I have a broken shin and my eyes feel like they're pushed into the back of my skull. Oh, and my head feels like someone sliced it with an axe. Did I mention how shitty this futon is?" He scrunches his nose up, pursing his lips. "But I'm great, why'd you ask?"

She narrows her eyes. "You nearly had a concussion and you're being a smart ass? Brave."

He tries to wink but it ends up looking retarded.

"I'll be right back," she laughs, standing up and walking into the kitchen.

He pushes himself up, managing to shuffle towards the bed, helplessly hopping onto it.

Fuck, he feels like he just went through World War III. He's going to have a real nice shiner come tomorrow. Should look swell in court. His stomach knots up, and he buries his face in a pillow.

Her pillow.

He smells oranges. He sees her slipping oranges between her lips.

Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck, his dick is hard.

He carefully turns onto his stomach.

She sits next to him, her hand on his back.

"Hey, turn around so I can fix your face," she says, prodding him in the side.

"Just- just give me a second," he says, words muffled against the pillow. He lets out a shaky breath.

Man, he needs to get laid. Like fuck, man.

"All right," he says, edging on his back and looking up at her.

"You're weird, Howard," she tells him, rolling her eyes.

And he nods as she places a rag over his eye. "Yes, yes I am."

He feels a bag of ice on his knee.

"I can't believe this happened," she breathes, her face solemn once more. "He just- I've never seen him so angry."

And he doesn't say anything because her hand is shaking over his eye and that unnerves him.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you I never told him about you," she continues, her face looking tired and eyes weary. "I just couldn't leave you here alone. You're my friend." Her thumb rubs over his cheekbone.

"But he's your boyfriend. Fiancé." And the word tastes bitter on his tongue.

She inhales, closing her eyes. "If he doesn't hate me."

"No one could ever hate you, Pam."

She chokes out a laugh, her lids fluttering open.

"C'mon," he says with a sigh, scooting over, motioning her to him.

She smiles, crawling next to him, her head hovering near his shoulder.

The pain in his body lessens slightly.


	5. City Girl

Chapter title: City Girl.

Summary: Because no matter what she thought about art school, or what she told Jim, she as staying for him.

Author's Note: Hey there. Hope you all enjoy this chapter. Comments are appreciated. Chapter title taken from a Tegan and Sara song.

She knows she should talk to him. She knows she'll have to grovel and cry and beg for forgiveness. She could try to explain, but he'll never understand. Why doesn't he understand?

She flips open her phone, curling up against the array of pillows on the bed.

The bed. They never call it his bed or her bed, or their bed. Just the bed.

She presses redial quickly; she's called three times this morning.

He answers on the forth ring. His voice sounds faint.

"Jim. Jim, you answered." She hates how desperate she sounds; this feels like last year.

"Yeah." He lets out a sigh. "I'm sorry I didn't answer before, I just…"

"I know. I know. Jim, I'm so sorry. I should have told you I moved in with Ryan," she says, her fingers nervously bouncing along her thigh.

"Yeah, you should have." He doesn't raise his voice, but shit, his tone is cold. She's never heard him so angry.

"You didn't have to punch him, though."

"You're _defending_ him?" His voice sounds truly incredulous.

"Yes," she says meekly. "But Jim," she rushes on, "you don't understand. He… He's probably going to jail."

"Because he's a fraud!"

"Jim!" And she feels herself becoming genuinely frustrated at him. "He doesn't have anyone. And he's so scared. He wasn't going to be able to afford his apartment anymore, I had to help him! I…" Her voice breaks and goddammit, why can't he just understand her?

"Do you love him?"

The question is so radical, so random, she finds her heart catching in her throat.

"What?" she whispers. "Do I- Jim, what the hell is wrong with you?"

She can hear his frustration miles away.

"Then why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I knew you'd be pissed and I needed to do this. I'm sorry I lied to you, I really, really am."

He exhales, his breathing muffled against her ear.

"Come home," he says, sounding weary.

"Come home?... Jim, I still have three months of school, I can't come home right now."

"But you can stay there with Ryan?" He has a defiant, stubborn tone.

"I would be here either way," she snaps. "I'm not coming home."

"Fine."

"Jim—"

"I'll talk to you later, Pam."

She hears the line fall dead. She wants to throw the phone across the room.

She presses her face into the mattress and cries instead.

Ryan wakes her up an hour later. He jumps a little when she lifts her head.

"Christ, what happened?"

She bursts into tears. Sad, pathetic, noisy tears.

"Shit, Pam, I'm sorry. I didn't mean…" He sighs. "Shit," he says again, sitting down next to her.

"Hey, it's all right," he murmurs, touching her shoulder gently. "Come on doll, don't get sick over it."

"He wants me to come home," she moans into his shoulder.

The hand that was patting her hair stops. "What?" And his voice sounds high pitched and she pulls away, looking at him.

"He wants me to come home," she repeats, blinking.

"You're… You're leaving?" His eyes look so sad and the look on her face must have looked pitying because he blushes, looking away.

"This is my home now." And the words come so naturally, it scares her, because she never realized how much the past two weeks had affected her.

His arms wrap around her and she rests her chin on his shoulder.

"Thank you," he says in her ear.

Because no matter what she thought about art school, or what she told Jim, she as staying for him. She was sleeping in a cramped studio apartment for him.

God. She kind of sort of loves… the city. The city. Of course.

xxxxxxx

He makes her breakfast every morning. Or afternoon. Depending on how early they wake up.

His omelets are the best it just makes her crazy. And he makes instant pancakes, but they just melt in her mouth, holy hell.

Not to mention he wears an apron when he cooks. That never gets old.

He's changed since the morning she found him drunk. He isn't as rude as he used to be (though he's still sarcastic. But she can be too.). He's more… aware of her feelings. And he's careful about what he says to her.

She finds it charming, how gentle he can be.

They sit on the bed eating omelets and watching golf.

"Ryan?" she asks, pushing a mushroom aimlessly around on her plate, "You don't even like sports. Why do you bother watching these games?" Pam had wondered this since the first night she's come over here.

And his face flushes slightly, crawling up his neck, reaching his ears. "I just… my dad used to watch games all the time and I never really got it. It was boring to me. But, I dunno, I would just sit with him and listen to him go on and on about things I didn't understand, but it's like we managed to connect over it."

He pauses, taking a bite of his food.

"He used to fall asleep to the Twilight Zone or whatever other crap was on. He was _always_ watching TV. When he was reading, or doing balancing the checkbook, or whatever. It was just noise to him. And when I left for college, I realized it wasn't there anymore so I bought a TV and an antenna for my dorm."

She grins widely. "Ryan, that's so sweet."

"No, it's dorky." He smiles, taking her empty plate and kissing her forehead before crawling off the bed to wash the dishes. He does that a lot.

No one's kissed her forehead in ages.

Maybe she should call Jim.

"Do you want to do something tonight?" he calls over the running water.

She doesn't think about Jim. "Yeah, sure."

She listens to him finish the dishes and wipe off the counters.

He's been a lot cleaner since she moved in.

"What do you want to do?" He walks back towards her, wiping his hands on the faded Nirvana tee shirt he usually wore to bed.

She considers for a moment before her face lights up. "Ryan. Ryan, I want to see a Broadway play."

And he stares at her. "Who the hell are you? Kelly?"

She tosses her head back, laughing. "Mm, no, I just want to go to a Broadway play with you."

He glares. "Get the laptop out, see what's playing."

"Thank you!" she calls as he walks towards the bathroom.

She hears him mutter something darkly, but she ignores it.

She's never been to a Broadway play before.

xxxxxxx

She wears a simple blue dress that kisses her knees in the most gentle of ways. He wears his nice black pants and a white button up shirt with a skinny black tie. His sport coat is tucked over his arm, an Ohio University sweatshirt hidden underneath it.

The air is humid when they step out of the theatre. She's wearing his sweater, because it was cold in the theatre. She keeps it. It smells like him. She feels all right.

"I can't believe you cried!" she laughs, linking her arm with his as they walk down the street.

"I didn't cry," he says rather stiffly, his face reddening all the same.

"You cried at RENT! I really should call Kelly," she taunts, reaching for the clutch hanging from her wrist.

"Not funny," he says, but smiles weakly. "It was a good play."

And her face is red as she tries to not burst out laughing. "Mmhmm, oh yeah." She pauses, looking up at him. "Thanks for taking me."

And he smiles his smile, the one that crinkles his eyes and lights up his face. She loves that smile. "Of course. It's nice to get my mind off of things." And he doesn't offer anymore, but she knows he's talking about the hearing because his face pales slightly and his eyes start to dim, like the morning she found him.

So she squeezes his arm, resting his head against his shoulder. "It'll be ok."

And he looks at her with a smile that just maybe might agree.

"Come on, I want to take you somewhere," he says, tugging on her hand, his face relaxing once more.

She follows along after him. "Ryan, where are we going?" she asks, breathless after walking for the past 20 minutes, the sweater clinging to her dress, making her body warm.

"You'll see," he promises, pulling her around the corner.

And she does.

The river is black and gleaming and the moon reflects so brightly, she has to squint a bit. He's still walking though, and the area's a bit sketchy looking, so she clings tighter to his fingers. They aren't sweaty like Jim's and they aren't rough and calloused like Roy's. They're smooth and cold and long, and they fit perfectly with hers. So she holds them, trying to push the guilt of holding someone's hand who isn't her fiancé.

Ryan finally comes to a stop, stepping in front of a crumbling brick wall. "I like coming out here sometimes," he says, turning towards the water, the lines of worry that are usually etched on his face now gone.

"Wow," she breathes. Their hands are tangled together, sitting in the space between them.

"I know," he says, "it's great. I've never been here with anyone else before," he adds thoughtfully.

She smiles at him. "I'm honoured."

His eyes shine under the moonlight and he pulls her to him, his hand resting on her hip. She's smiling against his shoulder and they're dancing, she's dancing with Ryan Howard. And it's not because he used to be the youngest MBA at Corporate, or because she feels bad for him.

It's because she's comfortable, but he keeps her on her toes and it's never dull with him. It's because sometimes when he says the wrong thing, it's really the right thing. It's because even though he thinks she saved him, he saved her a little bit too. Because she isn't the quiet little receptionist who lets people push her around and walk all over her. She's a city girl, now, and she's actually starting a new life, outside of Scranton, away from Dunder Mifflin. And he's only supported her through that.

And he's humming under his breath, so quiet and gentle it makes her melt.

Maybe she's falling for him a little bit. Just- just a little bit.

"What are you humming?" she asks, her heart fluttering in the most peculiar and beautiful way. She feels the heat crawling up his neck.

"El Scorcho by Weezer. It's been stuck in my head all day." He glances down at her, flashing an apologetic grin. "Sorry. I'll sop. I'm a terrible singer."

But she presses her ear against his chest, swaying in time to the beating of his heart. "Don't stop," she whispers, "please."

And he doesn't and by the time she falls asleep that night, she's singing the song too.

xxxxxx

She smells smoke when she walks into the studio. And she starts to panic, but when she starts sniffing the air to find out where it's coming from, she finds that she's inhaling a sweet scent.

Not a forest fire smoke smell. She pauses. Incense? Did Ryan buy _incense_? God, he is so weird.

She sees the pale white smoke drifting through the open window, the one that leads to the fire escape. Furrowing her brow, she carefully tiptoes across the room, (because, you know, maybe a robber broke in then decided to light incense on the fire escape) and peers out the window.

"_Ryan?" _

He doesn't even jump, just lifts his head to look up at her. The expression on his face is calm and lazy looking.

"Hey, dahling," he drawls, hiccupping in laugher. She spots a join between his fingers.

"Ryan, honestly," she says, attempting to gracefully crawl out the window. She stumbles, almost falling into him.

"Careful," he warns, holding her elbow. She steadies herself, dropping down onto the top step while he sits on the landing.

She watches him inhale, his eyes falling shut, contentment fixed over his features. He slowly exhales, smoke wrapping around his face before floating off towards the city.

"You look so pretty today, Pam," he says, his voice slow and smooth. "You always look pretty, but today you look doubly pretty." He giggles sheepishly.

She stares at him before blinking and turning away. She hates this fire escape. It's old and dirty and littered with cigarette butts.

Ryan loves it.

Go figure.

"Try some," he says, holding the joint out to her. She stares at it, edging away as if it'll attack her.

"No thanks," she says stiffly, reminding herself irresistibly of Angela.

"C'mon honey, just try it. You're an artist. It's basically the law that you smoke every so often." And he waggles his eyebrows in such a stupid way that she has to laugh.

"Fine. Just once, though," she tells him sternly, scooting forward.

His grin is triumphant and he leans forward "Mmk. Hold it between your lips," he instructs, slipping the joint in her mouth, keeping his finger and thumb a few inches from the cherry. "And you need to inhale, but don't just hold it, it needs to, like, be in you."

"That's what she said."

He laughs for, like, ten minutes.

"All right," he says, placing a hand on her chest, right over her heart. "Inhale."

He's like two inches from her face and his fingers can very easily sidle down her shirt. And he wants her to focus on breathing right?

Fuck that.

But she does and it's probably too big of a breath for her first try. Her head feels light and her lungs burn.

Coughing, she bends forward, clutching his knee, and gasping for breath.

"Shit!" she whimpers, her eyes watery.

He's laughing and she'd hit him but her limbs feel too heavy to move. Christ.

"Thatta girl!" he says, pressing his hand against the back of her neck gently. She leans into his palm.

"It's your first time," he says suddenly. "You need a song to remember it by." He fishes through his pocket, clumsily pulling his iPod and headphones out.

After shuffling through songs for a moment, he finally makes a pleased sounding noise in his throat, shoving a headphone in her ear. She giggles, taking the joint from him and inhaling once more, this time not as heavily.

"Is this Bob Dylan?" she asks, looking at him. And he nods, laughing. She starts laughing, too, she just can't figure out why.


	6. Fell In Love Without You

**Chapter Title: Fell In Love Without You.**

**Summary: She's making him stupid.**

**Author's Note: Sorry it's been so long. I figured I would post cos the season premiere is tonight. Enjoy and comments are loved.**

* * *

It's the night before the hearing, and shit, he wants to puke. He walks into the studio, a bag of bread and milk dangling from his fingers. He sets the groceries down onto the kitchen counter, looking around for Pam.

The window's open and he sticks his head out, the summer air warm on his skin.

She's stretched out on the top step, her feet crossed at the ankles. She's wearing a baby blue romper and fuckin' hell, her legs look so smooth. She has a strawberry between her lips, a bowl of them next to her. He freezes, watching her teeth bite down, red juice dropping down the side of her mouth. What the hell is up with her and fruit?

God, jail looks more and more like shit everyday.

"Hey," he says, stepping through the window. She glances up at him, her face pink from the evening sun. She beams at him.

"Hi!" Her cheerfulness isn't fake, but it's slightly exaggerated. He knows she's trying to take his mind off tomorrow. "How you doing?" she asks as he steps over her, sitting on the step below.

He nods, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear. "Doing good, thanks."

He hears her hesitate before reaching for another strawberry. Sighing, he lights the cigarette before placing it in his mouth.

The twisting in his stomach eases up and it's amazing that through all this peace he feels right now, his freedom lay at stake tomorrow.

He wouldn't be sentenced at the hearing, but the trial would come soon after, and fuck, his head was spinning again.

He stretches his legs out in front of him, resting his head backwards on her knees. She laughs softly, and he feels her fingers tangle in his hair.

The fact that she had a fiancé was apparent to him (he can feel her diamond brush against his scalp.) Part of him wants Jim to show up here because Ryan is so ready to kick his mutherfucking ass for making her cry. And this time, he won't have a blinding headache.

He's not falling for her, he tells himself. He's just not. She doesn't want or need a pill popping, money embezzling, broke, cokehead, loser.

Even if she did want him, which she doesn't, he couldn't like, ever support her. And obviously she wants something long term; she's been engaged twice.

Shit her fingers feel nice in his hair. He feels her warm thigh underneath his neck. He'd just really like to stay here forever.

Yeah. He's definitely _not_ falling for her.

"Do you want me to be there tomorrow?" she asks quietly, her petting coming to a pause.

"No," he says, looking up at her. "I'm sorry, I just really… I just don't want you to see me like that."

She gives a small smile, a sad one. "All right, I understand."

"You always do," he says, turning his head and kissing her leg. His lips touch her inner thigh and she blushes, a rush of goose bumps crawling up her leg. That gives him way too much satisfaction.

She continues twirling her fingers and he shuts his eyes, drifting off.

xxxxxxxx

He has to get up at six in the morning, so he shaved the night before; he knew he wouldn't be able to hold a razor when he woke up.

He leaves the bag of bagels he bought her yesterday on the counter in the kitchen along with a post it note.

She left him a drawing on top of the suit he laid out before bed. It's of him, on the fire escape with a cigarette and his iPod. He tucks it into his pocket.

He takes a cab to the courthouse. He meets his lawyer out front. Christ, his palms are sweating badly. Like, super fucking drenched. He thinks his lawyer, Mr. Brant, tells him to be calm, but Ryan's not sure. Brant wears suits from Thailand, and smells like uberly expensive cologne. He looks like the kind of guy Ryan's mom has been dating since his dad died. He thinks they're probably fucking. That thought makes me queasy. Ugh.

Ryan hates the guy, but he'll probably save his ass.

He wishes she were here.

The courthouse is freezing and nearly empty expect for some tight ass looking lawyers. And David Wallace.

He remembers the night by the Hudson.

The chair underneath him hurts his ass.

He remembers her hair.

He goes through the oath process and a judge comes out five minutes later. None of these words make sense to him.

He thinks of oranges.

Brant talks a lot for him. Probably wouldn't have been able to talk anyway.

The drawing in his pocket digs into his thigh. He sees her hands moving over the sketchbook. His stomach clenches.

The talking soon ends and he feels an elbow in his rib.

"Come on, Howard." Brant helps him to his feet, steering him out of the courthouse. Ryan feels Wallace's eyes on him.

Jesus, she has amazing eyes.

"So, I can probably get you two months, at least," Brant's telling him.

He forces himself to tune into what the lawyer's saying. "Wait, how long do they want to sentence me for?" he asks as they walk into the summer heat.

Brant looks at him curiously for a moment. "Five months to a year, but Wallace didn't go too hard on you. The trial's in two weeks and we'll appeal to your sentence. I don't think it'll be more then a few months."

Brant calls a cab. "Just stay out of trouble."

That's cute.

He stops off at a wine shop, and buys her red wine. Two months in jail isn't anything to celebrate.

He just wants to see a drunken blush on her face.

Ryan manages to make his way through the building in a slight daze, the aching in his body lessening.

He stands dumbly in front of his door.

He hears them shouting.

His name is mentioned.

He feels sick.

Just as he's about to barge in, the door flies open and he jumps back.

Jim is storming into the hallway.

And Ryan's just looking for another black eye.

She's crying quietly inside.

"Hey!" The wine is forgotten and he pushes off the wall, following after the asshole.

"Ryan?" Jim's face flushes. "What do you want?"

He sees her wet eyes in his head. "I want you to leave her alone."

Halpert's face looks angry and exhausted and a little sad.

"Don't worry. She chose you."

"She- what?"

"She chose you."

Ryan blinks. "We're not together, she's just my friend. My roommate."

"Yeah. But she chose to stay here. For you."

"I-"

"She's living in a shit apartment. For you."

"Stop-"

"She's worried sick. Over you."

"Stop it! Just stop saying that!" Ryan's face is red, his fingers clenched into fists. "I don't deserve her, ok? Neither do you. But she's been crying over _you_. Asshole," he spits venomously.

Jim looks like he's about to cry. Ryan will so kick that mutherfuckers ass if he sees as much as a tear. Like that dick has a reason to cry.

He's never felt so angry, so sick.

He wants Jim to punch him.

The pussy just turns around on his heel and walks away.

Fucker.

Running a hand through his hair, Ryan walks down the hall and picks up the wine, carefully ducking into the apartment. The door clicks shut behind him.

"Pam…" She's sitting on the kitchen floor. The mirror hanging in the living room is shattered. Fuck.

He sits across from her and says her name again.

Her ring is sitting on the floor next to her.

"Sweetie." He's never called a girl that before.

She lifts her face and its wet and her nose is running. "H-he left!" she hiccups. "He left." And her shoulder shake so fiercely and he reaches forward, wiping away her snot and tears and God, her face is so broken.

"Ryan," she whispers and she pulls her body to him, her legs wrapping around his waist, her knees pressed into his side. Her face is pressed hard into his chest and she's gasping for breath. She doesn't say anything, though, and he can't breathe.

He rocks her gently back and forth, kissing her hair, her swollen and puffy eyes.

"Ryan," she says, her voice desperate. She pulls away, holding his face between her hands. "Ryan, please don't leave me. When I ask you to stay, please don't leave," she chokes out. Her thumbs run along his freshly shaven face.

Fuck, she's breaking his heart, his nonexistent heart. Fuck fuck fuck.

"Please, please don't."

"I won't," he whispers gruffly.

"Please don't leave me."

"I won't leave you."

"Why does everyone leave me?"

"Because everyone's stupid."

"Except you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, except me."

She's making him stupid.


	7. Mr Right

**Chapter Title: Mr. Right.**

**Summary: Ryan treats her well, but he knows she's only human.**

**Author's Note: I will publish this. I promise. Jim and Pam got married; I need something to lean on. After this, I'm going to finish my zombie story. Yay for gore.**

* * *

She wakes up with a headache and sticky eyes. She still feels drained from the night before.

She remembers falling asleep wrapped in limbs. But she's alone now.

The bed is empty. Her body hurts.

(he left her)

Maybe she should eat. She hasn't eaten since lunch yesterday.

(but someone else stayed)

Maybe she should take some Aspirin. With water.

(for her)

Damn. She's so dehydrated.

(he stayed. for her)

Getting up seems like too much work, though. And she's still so tired.

(does he love her?)

Maybe she should go back to sleep. Maybe she'll feel better in a few hours.

(that's laughable. Ryan Howard can't fall in love)

Yeah, in a few hours, she'll get up.

(can he?)

xxxxxxx

When she wakes up again, her hand is warm in his.

"Hey," he says and his voice is soft, so soft she wants to melt in it. God, that sounds so cheesy.

"Hi." Her voice is hoarse and her throat hurts. "What time is it?"

He peeks over her shoulder. "12:30 in the afternoon. I thought you were going to sleep all day."

She laughs quietly. "Mm, no I'm awake."

He looks at her and she shivers because his eyes are so electric, she feels like they know just how much she hurts. "Are you all right?"

"I don't know," she tells him, sighing, and rubbing her eyes. "I just can't even begin to think of how I'm supposed to fix this, or even if I should. I just feel like I'm going in circles with him."

He gives a small, sympathetic smile; she knows he's not saying what he wants to say. "I'm sure you'll figure it out." He touches her hair. "Do you need anything?"

"Can you get me some Aspirin and water?" she asks.

And she watches him walk off, feeling a sensation of déjà vu, remembering another time when she wasn't feeling well and someone else was waiting on her.

How is she supposed to figure this out?

It hurts her head to think about.

After forcing herself out of bed, she dresses in capris and a yellow tank top.

He's sitting on the fire escape; she puts up with hanging around out there.

"Got you something," he says, holding up a box of popsicles. She can't help but smile as she takes a seat across from him, reaching into the box.

"Score. Orange." She peels the wrapped away, grinning widely. He laughs, shaking his head.

"S'all about purple," he says, waving his own popsicle around.

"Whatever," she scoffs, rolling her eyes.

They have to finish the popsicles quickly because the heat is pressing down on them.

"Ryan," she says, watching as he stacks their popsicle sticks together. "What happened yesterday? At the hearing?"

He doesn't react and she can't see his eyes because he has his sunglasses on. So she reaches forward, pulling them off his nose.

"Ryan," she says again, placing the glasses on her own face.

He sighs, sitting up, and squinting at her. "They mentioned somewhere between five months to a year, but my lawyer says he can probably get it down to two months. Supposedly Wallace is 'going easy' on me, which I don't get."

"He knows that you're not a bad person, you just… made some bad choices," she says simply.

He laughs. "God, Pam, you're so… I dunno." He looks at her.

She feels her heart speed up.

"What am I supposed to do when you're gone?" she asks, and she can't help that her smile is fading.

"Pam," he warns.

"Ryan," she counters back firmly.

"You'll be fine. I promise."

But she doesn't feel fine. She feels alone and he isn't even gone yet.

"I can't imagine having to stay here with someone else for two months," she says quietly and he blinks, looking surprised.

"You're- you're staying here? You aren't going back to Scranton after school?"

She gives a small smile. "You said you weren't going to leave me. I'm not going to leave you." And God, he looks like he might kiss her.

And then he does.

He's pressing his mouth against hers, and she's leaning back into the wall, pulling him against her. And Jesus Christ, he can kiss. His lips move against hers, gently but with just the right amount of pressure and his hands are holding hers, and God she might pass out. His tongue wets her bottom lip, brushing against her front teeth and she opens her mouth and his tongue is cold. He tastes sweet, like a grape popsicle.

She never liked the flavour of grape until now.

And he pulls back, nibbling her bottom lip for a moment before his red lips curve upward. "Oranges," he mutters, "fuckin' oranges, man."

She doesn't say anything, her fingers are trembling, and wow, she feels dizzy.

"Do you have a cigarette?" she asks, her voice wavering. He smirks slightly, pulling one from his pocket, and lighting it. She takes it, inhaling. Her eyes fall shut.

"Pam," he starts.

"Mm," she says, exhaling and shaking her head. "Just… shush."

He sits quietly next to her.

She soon finishes the cigarette, pressing the filter into the cement.

"Crap, Ryan," she says, clasping her fingers together and placing them neatly in her lap.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles.

"Just give me some warning next time, before you do that, maybe?" And she feels so lightheaded and she thinks her heart might have exploded along with… other things.

"Fine."

"Thanks."

"Can I kiss you again?"

"Ryan!"

"Sorry."

"…Fuck you."

"I wish."

xxxxxxx

He didn't kiss her again after that. The logical part of her is glad about that because, though she doesn't wear her ring, she's still engaged to Jim. They hadn't talked about where they stood, but she's been on Cloud Nine since Ryan kissed her.

The other part, her heart, wants to fall asleep next to him, tasting his mouth on hers, feeling his warm fingers on her skin.

He does apologise, probably remembering Jim, but she doesn't accept these apologies.

He does, though, show her affection and adoration in his small, Ryan-ish ways. He picks flowers from between the cracks in the sidewalk and puts them in her hair; he makes her bagels; he lets her pick every Friday night movie.

She's falling for him, Jesus she's falling hard. Sometimes she watches him when he sits on the fire escape and wonders how she got here, how someone so wrong for her, makes everything right. Maybe Jim is too right for her. Maybe he's too perfect.

Ryan treats her well, but he knows she's only human.

She feels as anxious about the trial almost as much as he is.

She thinks about putting out ads for a temporary roommate but she doesn't.

When he's out, she buries herself in homework so she doesn't have to think about being alone.

At least she's caught up in all her classes.

She sits outside, sketching away on her notebook, the evening humid. She feels sweat form on her hairline and she clips her bangs back, tying up the rest of her hair. Her skin is warm and freckled and she's been sitting outside for hours while Ryan takes care of business with his lawyer before the trial next week.

She ignores the twisting in her stomach.

"Say cheese."

She looks up, jumping slightly as she comes face to face with a Polaroid camera, Ryan behind it. She hears it click, a pure black slip of paper sliding out the front.

He smiles, placing the photo on the window sill to develop. "Beautiful."

"You can't even see anything!' she laughs, pulling away from the camera. He shrugs.

"I'm positive that it's beautiful." He leans forward, kissing her nose. "Wow, how long have you been out here? You're hot." He wipes away the sweat from her forehead.

"Few hours. I started with some homework then I moved onto some sketching. Where'd you get the camera?" she asks, trying to shield her face as he clicks another picture.

"Thrift store," he says, placing the picture aside and skipping down two steps and sneaking in another one.

"Stop," she giggles, ducking her head down.

"What? I'm going to have to pretty up my cell somehow."

She blinks, looking at him. He takes another photo.

"Ryan, don't do that," she says weakly. He lowers his camera, shrugging.

"Just being realistic," he tells her, crouching down on the step below her.

"I really don't want to hear about it," she says, turning her head away from him.

"I don't either." He pauses. "I'm not scared. Too much." His smile is tight lipped. "But, I mean, you'll be here when I get back, right?"

"You really think I'd leave?" she asks, tilting her head. Her heart hurts at the doubt on his face.

"Sometimes," he says bluntly. "I mean I'm not Jim."

"I know," she says slowly, feeling a pang at the familiar name.

"I'm not," he says again, his tone firm, "no matter how much you think or want me to be."

"I don't want you to be Jim."

"Because I wouldn't leave you. Twice." He seems as if he's talking to himself now.

"Twice?" She lifts an eyebrow.

"Yeah," he says, shaking himself and focusing on her again. "He left you when he went to Stamford, didn't he?"

"Well, I did reject him," she justifies. She almost starts to defend him.

"So." He looks at her exasperatedly, cutting her off. "That doesn't give him a reason to run off like a pussy. Even if he wasn't going to fight for you, he should have stuck around to make sure no other asshole touched you."

He shifts his weight, looking almost awkward.

"That's what I would have done anyway."

She blushes slightly, a smile teasing the corners of her mouth. "Really?" she asks him quietly.

"Well, I mean, yeah." He rubs the back of his neck, looking at the ground. "Yeah, I would have."

And she reaches forward, pulling his face to hers, kissing his lips gently, her fingers tugging at his hair. She feels him press into her, and she falls backward on the landing, laughing as he crawls over her.

"I like you," he tells her, biting her earlobe gently. "You know that?"

And she nods, her hair spilling out around her. "Yeah, I do."

He beams, kissing her cheek, her nose, her collarbone. "Do you like me?" he asks, leaning back slightly, and looking down at her.

She feels the warmth spread through her body, her face reddening from the heat and his sparkling gaze.

Laughing, she nods. "I like you. I like you a lot."

"Good." He edges her shirt up slightly, the hem resting just above her navel. He's biting his lip, his fingers spreading across her stomach. Goose bumps erupt around his hand and she feels ease flow through her body.

He sits up, his knees still on either side of her. "You're just… really beautiful." He scrunches his nose. "That sounds lame, doesn't it?"

"At least you aren't trying to kiss me in the rain," she says, grinning.

"Ooh, don't tempt me," he mutters sarcastically, reaching for the camera. "You should model," he tells her, beginning to click away. "Or strip. I am totally cool with either one."

Her ribs ache from his weight and from her laughter. "Shut up!"

"All right," he says sheepishly.

She likes the feeling of his hips against hers.


	8. On Your Side

**Chapter title: On Your Side.**

**Chapter Summary: What's he supposed to do now that he cares?**

**Author's Note: Woah. Two updates within a month. Hah. Maybe I'll start updating on Thursdays.**

* * *

He brings the camera everywhere.

He has pictures of the river, of taxis, of the fire escape. He has pictures of her.

He has a lot of pictures of her.

His favourite is one of her in a sundress, her shoulders bare. Her hair's piled on her head. She wears it like that a lot lately. His sunglasses are perched on her forehead and she's sketching. She doesn't see him.

Christ, he loves that pictures.

She takes pictures of him. He hates it, but whatever, you know? She likes taking them and he finds that cute.

The night before the trial, she sits him on a chair in the middle of the kitchen, wrapping a towel around his shoulders.

"What kind of roommate would I be if I let you go to court looking homeless?"

She says roommate. Whatever. He doesn't, he shouldn't, care anyway.

Yeah, not at all.

"I remember how you had it when I first met you," she says thoughtfully, spraying his hair with water. "You looked so young. I thought you'd just graduated high school, or something."

He grins, looking up at her. "That's why Michael stalked me!"

She sprays water in his eyes.

The iDeck is playing through the apartment. She sways on her feet slightly.

"Never pegged you as a 'Killers' person," he says as she cuts a piece of hair from the back of his head.

She frowns. "The Killers? What kind of name is that?"

And he laughs. Ok, maybe he cares a little bit.

She combs out a piece of hair by his ear. He pulls away from the scissors.

"Really, Ryan?" she asks, crossing her arms, an amused look on her face.

"Just… cut somewhere else," he mumbles, fumbling with his fingers nervously.

"That'll look stupid," she says flatly. "C'mon, I'll be careful."

"No."

"Ryan!"

"No, stop-"

"Come here!"

"What the fuck is up with the water?"

"Let me cut your hair!"

"I said no!"

"Ryan, stop being a tool!"

"Now I'm really not letting you get near me with _scissors_, you angry person. You can't just throw banana's at people!"

"Ryan, sit in the goddamn chair."

"Why?"

"Because I want to cut your hair! I won't cut your ear, I swear to God."

"Yeah, that's what my mom said before she hacked half my ear off!"

She stops, setting down the rolled up newspaper. "What?" she asks, her face looking torn between laughter and exhaustion.

"Yeah, I was ten and my mom was giving me a haircut…" He steps out from behind the bathroom door, his face flushed from running around the apartment. "And she was cutting around my ear and all of a sudden I feel, like, the worst pain ever and there's blood all over my neck and I had to go to the ER and get stitches."

He's panting, his whole body warm. The towel is still around his neck and hair is covering his chest, making him itchy.

And she laughs.

"Omigod, Ryan, I'm sorry!" But she holds onto the edge of the counter, breathless from laughter.

He puts his hands on his hips. "It's not funny," he says stiffly. "It hurt. A lot."

Her eyes are bright and she nods, her lips pressed tightly together.

"I'm serious!" he exclaims. "I have the scar to prove it!"

Her shoulders are shaking from a new round of giggling. "I believe you."

He reaches up, putting his hands over his ears protectively.

She snorts, doubling over.

He mumbles something under his breath.

"All right. I'm done," she gasps, straightening up and fixing a serious look on her face. "I won't hurt you, I swear to God."

He narrows his eyes.

"I'll buy you a beer if I do."

"If you do, I'll still have a bloody hole in my head. Beer won't fix that."

She gives him a look.

"Maybe it will," he caves, carefully stepping back into the kitchen. "Just be careful," he adds, sitting back down on the chair.

"You trust me, don't you?" she asks.

"Not with scissors, no."

"Ryan!"

"Yes, I trust you."

He winces as she begins trimming again, the scissors barely touching his skin.

Shit. He did trust her. When did that happen?

"All right, finished," she says, stepping back ten minutes later. "And you still have both ears!" He glares at her. "Sorry."

He sighs, unwrapping the towel from his shoulders.

"Come on, go see how it looks!" she says, pulling on his hand. He grins, trailing along after her and into the bathroom.

"Nice," he says, standing in front of the mirror, running his fingers through his hair.

"Sit down, I want to see something," she says, pointing to the closed toilet seat.

He does. Because he's totally not whipped. Like, not at all.

Her hands rest on his shoulders and she studies him for a moment. "See, you can kind of tease it in the back and it still looks good," she says, her fingers moving through his hair. "I like it this way."

"Well, that's all that matters then, right?" he asks teasingly, looking up at her.

"Well, yeah, basically. Fuck the judge."

And he laughs, but the realness of jail winds him.

She looks pale. Her fingers shake, tugging on a strand of his hair.

His arms slide around her waist, and he pulls her to him, his head resting against her stomach.

"I don't want you to leave," she breathes, her arms snaked around his neck.

He doesn't say anything. He slips his hand under her dress, slowly lifting it and holding the fabric against her hips.

Her breathing quickens.

He presses his lips against her stomach and Jesus, she tastes sweet. And warm.

Fucking oranges.

He runs a finger over the waistband of her panties, gently tugging them down.

He bites the inners of her thighs. His nose brushes against her hips and he feels her get wetter against his tongue.

Her nails dig painfully into the back of his neck. She seems embarrassed by the loud moan that escapes her.

And she peels off his shirt and she tugs off his belt and his jeans fall to his feet. He unzips her dress and they stumble through the apartment, falling against the bed.

His fingers graze her chest, her ribs, her hips.

"This isn't pity sex, is it?" he asks in a raspy voice, his mouth inches from hers.

And she laughs, shaking her head. "No, it's not."

The way she gasps confirms this.

xxxxxx

Her body is dripping with sweat. He watches her shoulders rise and fall as she lies on her stomach.

And his head reels because he just had sex with Pam Beesley.

And he's going to jail.

And he felt her skin between his hands.

He bets the cell will be small.

He made her moan.

Shit.

Sitting up, he feels something wet on her pillow. He hears her shallow breathing.

He was leaving her.

He crawls out of the bed, slipping his boxers onto his hips, and grabbing the cigarettes and lighter from the nightstand.

She doesn't stir as he climbs out the window.

The air is heavy outside. He drops onto the landing, facing the city below him.

He feels sick.

She's in there and he's out here and soon he won't even be here and she might not be there.

What if she goes back to that asshole? What if she leaves?

What's he supposed to do now that he cares?

Because, shit, she makes his heart ache just by laughing. Or by walking into the room. Or just by sitting quietly next to him, her perfume drifting around him.

It doesn't take much for him to loose his head. Especially around her. Usually around her.

The cigarette hangs limp between his fingers. It's late. He has to get up early tomorrow. He'll miss being in the city during summer.

He'll miss her dresses, and the drawings she leaves around the apartment for him. He'll miss the baseball games on TV and the movies before bed. He'll miss watching her paint her nails and seeing her toothbrush next to his. He'll miss all her crap scattered everywhere, tossed in his drawers and over his bookshelf.

The cigarette butt falls, floating through the air. He figures that it lands down on the sidewalk. He doesn't check.

At least he doesn't feel like jumping like he did after he got arrested.

Shit, she fucked up all his plans.

He'll miss that too.


	9. I Want To Know Your Plans

Chapter title: I Want To Know Your Plans.

Summary: And it scares her that she's getting herself sick over Ryan Howard.

Author's Note: Chapter title taken from a Say Anything song. Enjoy.

His lawyer called her. He'd be in jail until the second week of September. He had been sentenced 200 hours of community service.

"There's something else," the man had said, because two months in prison wasn't enough to make her ache. "Howard asked me to request you don't come to visit."

She had nearly thrown her phone.

"He's a stubborn bastard," the lawyer told her. "Lots of pride, that kid."

"Yeah. I know."

She sits on the fire escape. She wears his tee shirt and smokes his cigarettes because goddammit, she misses him.

She misses him sitting at the bottom of the stairs, clicking away with that stupid camera. If she was wearing a dress, he'd try to get a picture underneath it.

It always made her laugh.

Now she's trying not to cry.

And it scares her that she's getting herself sick over Ryan Howard.

For once, she doesn't know what her future is. It's always that way with Ryan. She never knows what she's going to do the next day with him. He's always everywhere. And she happily trails along after him.

Jim had been a safe bet.

Fuck, Ryan was in jail. And she was alone in his apartment.

She could call Jim. They could get married.

She's pretty sure Ryan never wants to get married.

She's also pretty sure she wants Ryan. She wants the unknown and the mystery and the surprises.

She wants him. Just him.

She's clutching the railing, vomiting onto the sidewalk below. The twist in her stomach loosens.

After three cigarettes, she goes inside, smelling like smoke. Smelling like him.

She tries to curl up on the bed to sleep, but she smells his shampoo on the pillows.

The futon's uncomfortable, but she stays there. For fifteen minutes. Until she finds one of his raggedy tee shirts underneath it.

She sleeps in the bathtub for three hours before smoking more cigarettes on the kitchen floor, a notebook and pen in lap.

She writes 'Dear Ryan' neatly on top of the page.

Her eyes stare blankly at his name.

She says his name.

Fuck, the apartment is so empty. Her voice manages to echo. Maybe it's just in her head.

Either way.

She writes their names together.

Pam Howard.

She feels like she's in high school. No. Elementary school.

If she stays, she'll always be Pam Beesley. She knows this.

It doesn't hurt as much as it should. She'd have something so much more then a name. She'd have him.

Shit. She wants him.

She smokes another cigarette. Scribbles between the lines of the notebook. She's drunk on sleep. So she tells him that.

"I hate you, a little bit. I've never smoked so many cigarettes in my life. The bad things are your fault. The good things are your fault. Everything's your fault, and you aren't even here. I really wish you were here."

She stretches out across the floor, not caring about crumbs or germs. The cigarette hangs from her mouth.

She thinks of one of the pictures she took of him, smoking in bed.

"Ryan, you messed up my plans."

Her hair's a mess. She needs to shave. Her nail polish is peeling. She loves it when he shaves, and Jesus, she could play with his curls all day. He always falls asleep when she does.

"I really adore you for it. That probably doesn't make sense."

Her fingers smell like tobacco. She remembers the first time she held his hand, when he took her to the river. She loves how cold they are, how neat his nails are. She loves how they move over her skin and manage to smooth over all her nerves. How they trace the freckles on her face and draw circles on her back in the morning.

"But you don't make sense. And lately I don't make sense. So us together shouldn't make sense."

She remembers his eyes. She remembers the drawing she did of them. She remembers the exact shades of blue she used. His eyes always calm her down.

"And it kind of doesn't. Maybe I like that, though. I still like you. I like you a lot. Do you still like me?"

She goes through two more cigarettes.

"I'm almost done with your cigarettes. I'll buy you some more when you get home."

She hates the word jail. She scratches it out.

"Hey, the Indians/Yankee game is on tomorrow. I'll send you the score. Kind of odd we live in New York but root for Cleveland."

Her fingers are tired.

"Life's so odd."

She misses him.

"I miss you."

She wants him home.

"Come home soon."

She loves him.

"Love, Pam."

She leaves the notebook on the floor and she pushes herself up, her knees feeling weak.

It's four in the morning.

She makes an omelet that doesn't compare to his and eats it on the fire escape.

This is her first night without him nearby.

This is her summer in the city.


	10. Nineteen Stars

Chapter title: Nineteen Stars.

Summary: His life's a movie.

Author's note: Agh, I need to update more. I'll try and update at least one more time this week cos this is a small post. Have a happy Thanksgiving.

* * *

He doesn't remember changing into the jumpsuit or being checked into the white collar jail. He doesn't remember them allowing him to keep his photographs. He doesn't remember trading his picture of the city skyline for a pack of cigarettes.

All he remembers is her mouth against his, tasting like sleep and orange juice. He remembers his fingers on her jaw, her knees sticking out from under the long tee shirt she wore, her hair tied up. He remembers her bouncing nervously on her toes, twisting her fingers together, blinking her bright eyes.

"Come home soon."

Come home soon.

"You gotta girl, kid?"

Ryan blinks, turning to look at the man next to him. He looks older, probably in his 50's. His beard is streaked with grey. He talks like they're in a mutherfucking Western movie and who in shit talks like that?

"No." Ryan's lip twitches slightly, almost as if he's trying to bare his teeth at the man.

That evening he finds one of her pictures in the pile and he crawls over the side of the bunk, sticking his hand out. Fred, his cell mate, takes it.

"She's lovely."

"Yeah. I know."

He's living in a mutherfucking movie.

Fred isn't there his first night. He doesn't care either way, he's alone in the end. And shit shit shit he misses her.

He flicks through the photos quickly, letting out a laugh when he comes across the one of her panties. It sounds hollow in the cell. Or maybe in his head.

Either way.

He smokes a cigarette. They're cheap and suck, but it's something at least.

There's a notebook and pen on the small bolted in table. He stretches out on his bunk with it and a cigarette is dangling from his mouth.

He thinks of the picture she took of him.

"Dear, Pam."

He writes her name neatly and clearly across the top of the page. Even writing her name hurts.

"How'd we get here? And I don't mean jail."

The smoke furls around his face, drifting over his skin.

God, he misses her skin. The way it looks, the way it smells, tastes.

"A few months ago, I never would have thought that I would have been writing to you from prison."

He can hear security guards down the hall talking.

"Then again, a few months ago, I never would have though I'd be in prison."

God, it's hot in here. Sweat's beading along his forehead.

"I'm just too… spontaneous. Is spontaneous the right word?"

He never has the right words.

"Sometimes I wish I'd just settle down. I'm constantly doing, or thinking, or saying."

He finishes the cigarette, flicking the butt lazily between his fingers.

"Fuck, man, I miss my cigarettes. Good thing you don't smoke, huh? That way I'll still have a pack when I get home."

Home. Home. Home. Home. It feels so far away.

"You're too good to smoke. You're too good for a lot of things. Namely me."

He begins to reach for another cigarette, but the last one left a gross taste in his mouth. He shoves the pack away.

"I heard some guys talking about the Yankees game last week. Hey, they're playing tomorrow against the Indians. Guess I'll have to pretend I like New York, otherwise I'll probably get killed. God, I wish I could watch it with you."

Shit, he misses her.

"I miss you.'

And he wishes to God that he was home.

"I want to come home."

Goddammit. He loves her.

"Love, Ryan."

He folds the letter up, placing it underneath his pillow along with his Polaroids. He'd send it out tomorrow.

The mattress is hard and uncomfortable. It doesn't even smell like her.

This is his first night without her nearby.

This is his summer in jail.


	11. Come Home

Title: Come Home.  
Summary: Sitting in the summer air, she feels so young and innocent.  
Author's Note: I wanted to get this all posted before Christmas but that didn't happen. I have an epilogue that will be posted this weekend, hopefully. I hate how rushed this feels but I don't have the time to go back and fix it. But I'm going to be working on a Ryan centric story soon, I think, and I've been working on a Ryan/Pam Office horror story since like, last spring. So wait for that. Anyway. Sorry for keeping all you dears waiting. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

She failed art school. She fuckin' failed. Art school.

Jesus, she wants to throw up. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. How in God's name do you fail art school?

She's going to be sick. So sick.

Fingers shaking, she stumbles through the apartment, sticking her head out the window, heavily breathing the late summer air. She clumsily sticks her legs through, pulling herself through the window.

A packet of cigarettes and a lighter sit on the window sill, but she ignores them. She carefully sits, everything distorted behind her blurry eyes and how the hell did she fail art school?

God, she's embarrassed. Humiliated. Mortified. Her face burns, even as she sits alone.

She swallows hard, lifting her head, her body now shaking with sobs.

She was alone in a huge city, living in an apartment she could barely afford. She managed to fail as an artist, something she was supposed to be, something she wanted to do for her career.

The thought of working in her sketchbook depresses her.

She pulls her phone from her pocket, flipping it open and glancing at the date. Ryan was coming home in almost two weeks.

This manages to make her feel a little better. Well, she doesn't vomit, anyway.

She remembers the letter on the kitchen counter, the one she received this morning but set aside before rushing out the door.

The thought of seeing his handwriting and reading his words is the only thing that forces Pam to her feet. She feels a nail in the window sill dig into her skin as she tries to crawl back into the apartment as quickly as she can. "Fuck!" she cries out, warm blood dripping down her ankle. The tears resurface as she limps into the kitchen, her breathing shallow.

She hops onto the counter, sticking her foot into the sink and running cool water over the gash. She sniffs, pulling the envelope to her, setting it on her lap.

He doesn't call her ever and she keeps her word and doesn't visit, although if he ever asks, she would. It's not like she's afraid. But she knows how humiliated he probably feels.

Humiliated.

Her eyes burn and she carefully slides a finger underneath the envelope flap, ripping it open. She unfolds the leaf of notebook paper, so thin in her hands. The ink is dark against the white paper, popping out at her.

But instead of his full page of writing, this letter is simple, each word scripted carefully:

Home soon. You're still there, aren't you?

-Ryan.

She feels her heart tug, the previous anger and frustration at this day crumbling away. She holds the letter tightly, her fingers almost causing rips in the page.

Just a few more days and this apartment won't feel so empty.

xxxxxxxx

She tries to find a job the week leading up to Ryan's return. She isn't picky or snobby about where she applies. The idea of returning to graphic design pisses her off so she doesn't even bother looking into those ads. There's a flower shop at the corner of her street she applies to, and the deli she and Ryan went to on 6th.

She tries retail, but the high end spots give her disapproving looks and the children's clothing store a few blocks away from PRATT kills her nerves because of all the crying kids the employees and shoppers bring in.

There are other art classes avalible at PRATT, but she wouldn't be going on the company program, so it'd have to be paid for out of her own pocket. Maybe in a few months, but for now, she needs a break.

The anticipation of seeing Ryan again is building up, along with a sense of anxiety. She doesn't know where they are, if she's his girlfriend, or whatever. The thought of them being together, though, draws a sense of reasoning and ease from her, a big change from the shitty rollercoaster she had been riding lately.

Life with Ryan wouldn't be easy, and she knows that. It's probably not going to be much different then life with Ryan is now: sarcastic, unpredictable, random, and the most real thing she's ever experienced.

God, it's amazing how right being with Ryan felt, even through all the arguments, even though it should be wrong.

She sits on the fire escape the morning he's to come home. She has his iPod in her hands, flipping through songs and pausing every to often to listen to one of them.

It's become a morning ritual, sitting out here with tea and the iPod. He had made at least twenty different playlists before leaving and she listened to everyone like it was a story he was telling.

Though it's September, the summer air sticks around, the morning sun turning the back of her neck pink.

He has a playlist called 'morning' and oddly enough, she hasn't listened to it yet.

And it starts with a song by Brand New, a band she had become familiar with over the past few weeks. It was so Ryan, and she is so happy that he was coming home today because otherwise, she'd loose her mind missing him.

She hadn't even heard his voice in two months.

Christ.

After finishing the playlist, she stands, walking back into the apartment. She showers, allowing herself to take an extra five minutes then usual. She stands in front of the mirror, trying to figure out what to do with her hair.

She leaves it straight, simple.

Everything just feels so significant. Everything she does, it's like she needs to remember it.

And God, her heart is racing as she pulls her yellow dress over her head, straightening the skirt of it out.

And his taxi will be here soon, so she paces back and forth across the kitchen floor, and she wonders if he'll kiss her, if maybe it'll be better then the first time he ever kissed her, that evening on the fire escape.

Fuck, she's nervous. So nervous she barely registers the knocking at the door. And she doesn't really expect him to knock but its better then him randomly walking in and giving her a heart attack.

Jesus, she might just have a heart attack anyway.

Her fingers are slippery with sweat as she grasps the doorknob and pulls the door back.

And he stands there in the black v-neck and jeans he left in, a light sweater over his shoulders.

His face looks a lot tired, but a lot more relieved to see her there.

To see she didn't leave.

And she gasps as his arms wrap around her waist and she doesn't think she's ever been this close to him, like close close. Even when they had sex.

Every emotion she's had the past two months just lifts off her shoulders and she's blinking into his shoulder, trying to hide the tears, because fuck, that's cheesy.

But the closeness and realness of him is so overwhelming, she's just about to loose it. And then she does when his mouth finds hers and he's leading her backwards into the apartment, pressing her gently against the wall.

His face is wet from her eyes and she's gasping between kisses. Because even though he was gone and she flunked out of art school and she doesn't have a job or money, he was still there for her.

And now he's here, and God, that sounds so right. And this shoe box apartment and this ginormous city has never felt more like home with his hands tangling in her hair and his breath hot on her neck as he mutters 'I love you' over and over.

And she laughs between her tears, her hands pressed against his face, her fingers feeling his familiar skin.

"I love you, too," she whispers, hiccupping softly. "God, I love you so much."

And his smile, so boyish and shy, God it kills her.

And she's holding his hand as if this is new, as if they're just young and innocent.

Sitting in the summer air, she feels so young and innocent.


	12. Epilogue

Title: Epilogue.  
Summary: He feels the series of chills crawl up his spine, like when the realization of being with her hits him.  
Author's Note: Well. We have come to the end, my friends. Thank you for sticking around. I've adored writing this and I hope you liked reading it. Stay tuned for future Ryan/Pam fics and maybe even a little bit of Ryan/Kelly. I appreciate all the comments and criticism and support.

* * *

The winter air bites his nose, and shit, its cold. What idiot actually goes ice skating? In Rockefeller centre, no less? On Christmas Eve?

Fuckin' hell, it's cheesy.

Clearly, though, he does. But only because she wants him to. And that doesn't make him whipped, thanks.

"Ryan, you're not going to fall! Just, come on!" She's blinking against the light snowflakes, her face pink. "I'll help you." She sticks out her hand expectantly.

"Go ahead. It's much more fun watching." He clings to the gate, wincing as his skates jerk him forward slightly.

And she makes that face, that face she doesn't even mean to make. It's a mix between disappointment and sadness.

He groans, straightening up and shakily clomping over to her, the skates' heavy under him.

"Good job," she beams as he clutches her arm. "Now, just go slowly. And try not to wobble so much." He glares at her.

"I'm walking on knives, basically, and you expect me not to wobble? That's rich."

"Ryan, can you at least pretend to be happy?" she sighs, coming to a stop.

He looks down at the ice below them. "Sorry," he mumbles. He takes her gloved hand, offering a small wary smile. "C'mon. Teach me how to ice skate."

After a few times around the rink, Ryan manages to skate without falling. The knees of his jeans are wet from the previous times he met the ground.

He's leaning against the barrier and she's standing in front of him, hiding her face in his warm jacket. The snow is bright against his dark tousled hair.

It's dorky. It's so vomit inducing-ly dorky. But he leans down towards her ear anyway. "It's your song."

And she straightens up, blinking. It takes a second.

"It is!" she gasps. "It's the Judy Garland version, even!" She looks up at him, her eyes hopeful, and he sighs, taking her hand and pulling her gently into the rink.

And 'Have Yourself A Merry Christmas' is playing over them as he holds her to his chest and God, they're mutherfuckin' cute, he knows it. It almost makes him want to cringe but he doesn't. He feels the series of chills crawl up his spine, like when the realization of being with her hits him.

He holds her a little closer then he should have.

xxxxxxxx

They sit on the bed that night, the heater cranked up as they try and defrost their fingers and toes.

She decides they should exchange gifts now and he feels his heart flutter nervously.

"Merry Christmas," she says, her smile wide. He takes the nicely wrapped package and pulls the paper off, a velvet black box resting in his hands. "Well, open it!" She's nearly bouncing with excitement.

He does. It's a watch. A really beautiful watch. Better then the one he had to sell after not being able to find a new job after a month.

It's cold against his skin and he turns it around in his hands, his name engraved on the back: R y a n H o w a r d.

"Pam…" He looks up and reaches over, kissing her mouth. She giggles softly, placing it on his wrist and latching the back. "It's perfect."

He looks at her a moment and then he reaches over and pulls a small boxed gift from the nightstand.

"Merry Christmas." She grins widely, the box sitting small and neat in her hand.

"Tiffany's?" She asks, looking up at him from the teal box.

He laughs. "Yuh."

And her grin falters as she flips open the box and his heart skips a beat. "Oh my God. Ryan."

Her eyes are wide, her face in shock. "Ryan?"

His smile is weak. "You wanna marry me?" he asks hoarsely.

"Yes." Her eyes are bright. "Yes," she says again, tears threatening. He pulls the engagement ring from the box, sliding it onto her finger.

She stares at it before looking up at him. "We're getting married," she says, giving a watery laugh. "Oh my God. Oh my God."

And she's pressed against his shoulder and he can't help his relieved sigh.

Because yes, goddammit, he's going to marry her.

Fin.


	13. Soundtrack

Summer In The City soundtrack. I enjoy making playlists. Many of the chapters in this story are based off these songs. Check it.

Summer In The City- Regina Spektor

Marching Bands of Manhattan- Death Cab For Cutie

Slow Down- The Academy Is…

City Girl- Tegan and Sara

Fell In Love Without You (Acoustic version)- Motion City Soundtrack

Mr. Right- A Rocket To The Moon

On Your Side- A Rocket To The Moon

I Want To Know Your Plans- Say Anything

Nineteen Stars- Meg and Dia

Come Home- One Republic

Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas- Judy Garland (Meet Me In St. Louis soundtrack)


End file.
